


twins on motorbikes

by mercutia



Category: Hardy Boys - Franklin W. Dixon, Nancy Drew (Video Games), Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys Super Mysteries - Franklin W. Dixon & Carolyn Keene
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Gen Work, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-01 20:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20888093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutia/pseuds/mercutia
Summary: Joe could recall investigations when Frank had been more on-edge and he would double-triple-quadruple-eleven times check his work, in every situation. It frustrated Joe, of course, and he didn't understand then.He doesn't really understand now either.(A story of two brothers dealing with their own personal struggles and leaning on each other.)





	twins on motorbikes

**Author's Note:**

> This is a genfic that deals with a character’s mental health and alludes to the sexuality struggle of another. Please see the end notes for a list trigger warnings.
> 
> Yes, this is absolutely a self-indulgent piece. Half of it was written four years ago. Half of it was written this month. Happy new-Nancy-Drew-game season!

The first sign was always the creaking of the bathroom door opening and closing several times throughout the night. The floorboards would squeak unpleasantly as Frank tiptoed back to his bed, to toss and turn until he fell asleep only to be awoken again in fifty-nine minutes. Joe pretended to be asleep. It would do no good for Frank to think he'd been keeping his younger brother awake. 

A couple days after that, in the midst of sleep deprivation and overdue homework, Frank would stop eating. Not completely and not consciously, but (as much as he hated it) his dinner plates were nearly full at the end of meals, and he couldn't bring himself to swallow even a bite of his favorite meals.

Joe noticed him carefully counting the steps it took to cross a floor. The number of times he ran his finger down a piece of paper. Tallying each instant he flipped over a clue. Frank seemed to like when things occurred eleven times or added to eleven or divided by eleven or _ eleven eleveneleven. _

It was hard to escape that number, and Joe wasn't even the one who was obsessed with it. And that's what it was - Frank had been diagnosed with OCD in the last year, but it started long before that. Joe could recall investigations when Frank had been more on-edge and he would double-triple-quadruple-eleven times check his work, in every situation. It frustrated Joe, of course, and he didn't understand then.

He doesn't really understand now either. He _ wants _to understand why his big brother has the weight of Atlas choking him down at the dinner table, in the school halls, on the porch swing looking out into the neighborhood. But Frank doesn't want to talk, and Joe can't make him understand the promise of the future. 

It's watching Frank stare unseeingly at Calculus homework at three in the afternoon that Joe thinks _ curse whoever said the depression is worse at night. _ Joe can cope in the dark, when hearing the sound of suppressed tears just means he can climb into his brother's bed and give comfort through solidarity. Frank can lay down, and the night gives him rest. It's during the day, with obligations and responsibilities and the façade to maintain for their friends and for mom and for _ dad _when Joe can see his brother crumbling. Joe can feel Frank about to scream that he doesn't care and that he's scared and that he wants to run.

Frank would say these things aloud, except that his stomach has the constant sensation that his chair has tipped back just slightly too far. He's going to keep falling. He suspects that his loved ones pushed him, or they won’t be sympathetic if it was his own fault. He doesn't know who to trust when the chair is tip-tip-_ tipping. _

Some days, “I’ve been having suicidal thoughts.”

“Do you have a plan?” Joe would ask, following the protocol.

“You know me,” his brother laughed. “I’ve always got a plan.”

Then Joe would fumble through the house, collecting each orange pill bottle and tarnished knife, conceding that it was fruitless anyway. If Frank wanted to end his life, he would find a way. 

He wished that were the scariest part to him - losing his best friend. Really, the most terrifying thing was that his brother suffered through every day he had to spend in this world. Yes, there was pain, and yes, there was suffering, but was he so blind to the minutiae that made every morning worth it? If Joe were stronger, better, he'd say he wasn't frustrated by it, but he was. During Frank's dark days, nothing would get through to him. His own cyclical guilt and despair made him feel selfish. Couldn't see past his own minor torment. People needed him and loved him, and Frank couldn't implore his own limbs to climb out of bed at 11 in the morning. 

Oh, how every day Frank would love to stay in bed until _ 11 _ in the morning. 

***

“...ank? Hey. Frank,” Joe’s voice finally cut through his brother’s ruminations. 

“Hm?” Frank tilted his forehead away from the cold glass of the car window. It was just under freezing outside, and the chilly bite made Joe’s steamy insisted-upon temperature of 73 degrees a bit more bearable. 

“Um, I wanted to talk to you. About… something.” Joe stared resolutely ahead, eyes on the road, but Frank could see the distraction in the way he was worrying his bottom lip. Frank remained silent until the gap of time prompted Joe to continue. “So there’s this, uh, there’s this case actually th-” 

“No, there’s not,” Frank muttered, looking back out the right side of the vehicle.

“What?” Joe sounded genuinely taken aback.

“Or, okay, maybe there is a case. But that isn’t what you want to ask me. Or tell me. So don’t waste either of our time and spit it out.” The cruelty in his tone would be forgiven, but Frank did feel the sting of remorse at the curt words. 

“Fine, Frank. I’m worried about you.” 

The older of the Hardy boys took a deep breath, steadying himself and pushing away the defensiveness that he knew from experience would not be productive to the conversation. “You’re always worried about me. What did I do this time?” 

“I know that you’re not seeing that online therapist anymore, for one.” 

“For - wait, are you going through my laptop?!” For the first time since the two of them had slid into the battered old Artery (Joe’s terrible nickname for the car they shared. It was the Hardy delivery vehicle! Or rather, HEARTy. Like an artery! Geddit? Because it’s red?), Frank was sitting at attention, fully present and aware. Aware of Joe sweating slightly through his flannel, the snow that had increased in speed around them, the quiet chords of The Wombats playing through the speakers. And then - 

First, he mentally rifled through his recent Google searches. Mostly, the searches were all related to a case that Nancy had called Frank to talk through (_college secret societies, river heights university founding, crown and claw induction rituals)_, but a decent enough chunk that terrified Frank to consider Joe seeing could be found, some that didn’t even make sense to his own brain except in its own compulsive and twisted way (_maximum dose of lorazepam, suicidewatch reddit, crisis text line, most common deaths in the northeast, mortality rate of younger vs older siblings, top eleven, _ well, insert anything there and it was possible). Before he was consciously aware of it, Frank had pulled his right foot up onto the seat of the car, frantically untying his shoelaces. Had Joe seen the folder of bookmarks for gruesome, graphic stories of accidental deaths within 200 miles? He must have thought Frank was some twisted _ freak_, obsessed with the gory details of that missing girl, that father who had fallen from the roof, the shooting at the - 

“_Frank! _” 

Six times now. Six times he had tied and untied (not double-knotting, that step would be saved for the second round through) the navy blue Converse he had gotten as a gift his freshman year of high school. A few more, and it would guarantee that nothing like that accidental poisoning via recalled homeopathic pills would happen to Joe. His brother would be safe. No reason existed for his father to go out on the roof anyway! If he just kept - 

The car had stopped moving. He vaguely felt Joe’s hand in his vest pocket, aware enough to know that he was rummaging for his anti-anxiety medication. Just one more to go. 

_ And done. _

Frank put his right foot back down on the ground, satisfied with the loops that were starting to fray at the edges. He’d have to replace the laces _ again _ soon; it hadn’t been terribly long since the last time unfortunately. 

“You don’t have to do the left one,” his brother whispered softly, holding out a small oblong pill and gesturing to the bottle of water in the cup holder between them. “You know that you don’t have to. You’ve been working on it, and you’ve come really far, and I… You don’t have to do the left shoe.” 

Frank swallowed, unable to meet Joe’s eyes, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment. “But -” He cut himself off. Both of them knew there was no sensible argument. _ God_, he was supposed to be the strong, wise older sibling. He was supposed to have his shit _ together_. 

Neither moved for a moment, and the only evidence that time hadn’t stopped was Khalid replacing the last song to play (Frank couldn’t have told you what it was; he wasn’t even sure how long the car had been stopped before Joe interrupted) and the soft squeak of the windshield wipers as they cleared off the white flakes on the front of the car. Frank finally brought his eyes to his brother. “Hand it to me.”

Joe carefully unfolded Frank’s clenched hand, securing the pill in his palm, before unscrewing the water bottle’s lid and passing the Hydroflask to Frank. “Just a couple sips.” 

Right. It wasn’t rational to gulp down half of the bottle that they had for the journey to the Mortons’ winter cabin; stopping off at a gas station wouldn’t be sensible in this weather, and an hour of the drive was still left. Frank nodded, pointedly avoiding his brother’s eyes at this point and slipped the pill in his mouth, mentally counting eleven seconds of slow, _ slow _ sips that only totaled three. To Joe, it would seem as though he had successfully fought off the primal irrational part of his brain that took away his agency. That was what mattered. 

“Okay?” 

Frank didn’t say anything - couldn’t - eyes still on his left shoe. The laces seemed looser than ever. 

“Frank, talk me through it.” 

“I-I’m _ sorry _ ,” he whispered, eyes clenching. _ At least I’m not staring at my shoe. _

The cruel part of Frank’s brain that told him vile lies about his brother’s thoughts and feelings expected a sigh from Joe, exhausted that he misinterpreted the point or, maybe, not believing that he was really sorry at all. He was going to make them late to the Mortons’ after all. 

_ The snowstorm is going to make you and Joe late. You had nothing to do with it. _ He smiled at that thought; the voice in his head sounded vaguely like Callie Shaw, the on-again/off-again girlfriend of his who he assumed at this point to be a platonic soulmate of sorts. Barring Joe and Nancy, nobody had been more patient with his mental health than she had. At the end of the summer, Callie was leaving for her five-year Bachelor’s/Master’s social work program. He wished he could have even a fraction of the pride for his own achievements that he did for any of his friends’. 

“Dude, there is no need to apologize. You’re my brother. I want to make sure you’re with me though.” 

Frank laughed, still not genuine, but he thought that maybe he could get there soon. “I’m with you, Joe. I’m always with you. You and your shitty playlists. Is this _ Young Dumb & Broke_?” 

Frank sensed more than saw the tension fall out of Joe’s shoulders; in response, Frank tried not to look back at the navy blue sneaker in shame. A year of cognitive-behavioral therapy had gotten him this far. The number eleven wasn’t going to control his life anymore. 

“Do you even know your Khalid? It’s _ Location_. Ned plays it at, like, every gathering he hosts since it’s the only -” air quotes “- ‘cool song’ that he knows.” Joe said it as though they often find themselves hanging out with Ned Nickerson beyond visiting River Heights to see Nancy, but Frank had a suspicion that he might spend a bit more time than average viewing the other boy’s Spotify. 

“Right. My bad. I -” The crack of his voice sounded like it came from a body, a throat that wasn’t his. “I _ am _ sorry, Joe. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.” At this point, Frank was rubbing his face in his hands, feeling like a dog that knew it had misbehaved and was avoiding her owner’s glare. He could feel the medication starting to take effect at least, and his thoughts had started slowing down.

Maybe that was worse though. Now his brain was just on a discordant shuffle of the various ways the last few minutes would have once again changed the way that Joe viewed him. It always came back to Joe. 

“Of course I shouldn’t have to.” 

Frank’s neck felt cold. 

“I shouldn’t _ have _ to,” Joe continued, “because _ you _ shouldn’t have to deal with it. But you do. And you do it so well. And I know that right now you are mad at yourse -” 

He made a small noise of frustrated disagreement.

“_I know _ that you are mad at yourself for letting me see you like this. You always are. You think I don’t notice when you start getting in your head and then make an excuse to leave? To go shower or take a bike ride? And…” Joe took a soft breath. “Yeah, that scares me. But only because I love you, and I worry about you until I get my brother back and know that he has found his footing again. Because you always, always do! So…” 

They met each other’s eyes, and Joe turned more properly to face the steering wheel. Frank fiddled with the lid of the water bottle. Like with most siblings, it was an unspoken rule that sincere displays of emotions between them be reserved for birthdays or memorials for dead family members or something. Frank sucked his cheeks in and bit down on them hard as he made a decision. Almost without conscious effort, his left sneaker lifted onto the car seat, and he held up a hand to stop the words about to come out of Joe’s mouth. 

Slowly, Frank untied the laces. A beat. And then he lowered the sneaker back to the ground beside his right foot. One shoe tied, one untied, done in some nonspecific number of seconds. “How’s that?” 

He could see that Joe was fighting back the intensity of the smile on his face. “I’m pr -” 

“_I swear _ if you say you’re proud of me, my entire ego will shatter. Just get us back on the road,” Frank growled out, grabbing Joe’s iPhone to select the music as a means of distraction, and because he felt no guilt about exploiting a fresh anxiety episode to play something that was more his speed. Accordingly, Joe didn’t make any comment as Frank typed in the passcode. A niggling part of his brain brought back the guilt from before; he’d freaked out at even the idea of Joe going through his laptop -- Joe who was a _ detective _ and could have found out a million different ways that Frank had stopped his appointments with the online counselor -- but his brother didn’t say a word as he opened his phone, flicked incoming messages away, filtered through his playlists to find the one labeled “Frankie’s Faves.” 

_ Huh_. A new playlist had found its way to the top, recent enough that Frank was surprised to see that it had about thirty songs on it: “no more actin’, man.” He supposed it wasn’t fair to snoop, not when he hadn’t let Joe even finish what he was trying to say. The part of him that was always scared hoped desperately that Joe’s concerns wouldn’t be brought up at the Mortons’ cabin, but he knew once they cracked into the Iola and Chet’s parents’ supply of cheap boxed wine (their parents kept it up there knowing the kids were certainly going to sneak some booze so it might as well not be the expensive liquor), words would come tumbling out. From him and from Joe.

Deeply under wraps, under the constellation of doubts and ensnaring fears, a secret and brave fragment of Frank’s public persona truly did exist. That fragment wanted Joe to ask each and every question he had always wanted to. Maybe he could finally understand. That fragment wanted Joe to rip away every last ribbon of what was keeping Frank upright and force him to break down until he got the help that he needed. Terrifying. But liberating. The Frank that had nothing left to hide behind could lean on his brother and his friends without shame until he truly was the well-built detective prodigy they had all started out thinking he was. 

To the soft jangle of _ Kids_, the first song on shuffle on Joe’s playlist for him, Frank mentally played out this conversation between relentless Joe and courageous Frank (the latter a fictional entity, as far as Frank was concerned). He had gone back to leaning his forehead against the cold window with an increased awareness of the uneven warmth on his face from the drying tears that he hadn’t realized leaked out. Relentless Joe began his interrogation: 

Did you cancel your subscription for the online therapy website? _ Yes. I wasn’t being honest. I was paying money to lie to people that I’m getting better. I can do that for free with you and Callie and Nancy and Ned and - _

Wait. Let’s talk about Nancy. _ Let’s not _. 

You love her. _ I thought these were supposed to be questions. _

Okay. Do you love Nancy? _ Yes. I think I always will. _

Is it easier or harder for her to be the one witnessing your OCD episodes? _ It’s easier, but she never knows how to respond. For all of her brains, Nancy is a bit lacking in emotional intelligence _ (here, Frank laughs against the car window but ignores Joe’s glance over at him). _ I’m able to help myself a bit more which sounds… like a lie. But it’s true. I promise. _

I believe you. _ With you, I feel the weight of everything that I’m unable to be. I’m a year older. I’m, uh… _

The smart one? _ I guess. You’re the brawn. I’m the brains. Well, two-thirds of the brains. I can’t fail you by being someone who is a shell of the person at the best of times. _

You know that nobody believes that about you, right? They see the capable teen sleuth! They someone who overcomes! Th - _ Hey, Joe. _

“Hey, Joe.” His brother hummed in response, indicating that he was listening. “You’re pretty wise.” 

“Ha!” he exclaimed, his eyes peeled from the road for an extended moment. “What do you want?” 

Frank sat up, taking in the profile of the younger Hardy boy. Joe didn’t slouch nearly as much as Frank did; that was a new habit, developed out of a desire to make himself small. Years of varsity athletics had put some muscle on Joe, and he certainly outweighed Frank despite being two inches shorter. At seventeen and eighteen, they were unlikely to grow much more, but Frank still feared his _ younger brother _ overtaking him in height. He could see Joe buying an overpriced pair of stacked heel dress boots though. Frank would stick to his Timberlands, _ thankyouverymuch _. He considered himself more than simply lucky in that moment: most siblings fought as often as they did, but most siblings did not have the deep friendship and admiration that came with the Hardy brothers’ bickering. “I don’t want anything, Joe. I mean, take the compliment. But I want…” 

He trailed off as the next song picked up, slower and calmer than the last. The lorazepam was making him tired, and he’d already not slept well the night before from a combination of insomnia and trying to piece together whether the case that the Bayport Police Department had failed to solve by now was worth their time. Leaning into the fleece collar of his vest, Frank gently closed his eyes. He knew with absolute certainty that Joe was still shooting concerned looks at him, but his brother would let him sleep until they got to the Mortons’ cabin. 

Until then, for the next forty five minutes or so, Frank could enjoy the reprieve of his brain firing one thing after another and sleep safely next to his favorite person in the world in a stupidly nicknamed car with a queue of music that was just for him.

***

Joe felt the pink warmth of a steadily increasing alcohol flush on his face. As if summoned by that thought, his older brother appeared in front of him with a Solo cup full of water and shoved it directly in front of face. “Drink it, lightweight.” 

“You drink it, lightweight,” he giggled out, failing to catch Frank’s eyeroll. 

As Frank sat down next to Joe, he said, “Oh, good one. I think you’ve got something original going with that comeback, but we can talk after you workshop it. Drink your water.”

Joe did as he was told, slowly sipping as his eyes drifted around their circle. Iola was chatting with her feet tucked up next to Callie on the couch; it was an on-again era for her and Frank, but Iola and Joe were definitely over for the foreseeable future. Not due to any ill will or bitterness from either of them - sometimes things just don’t work out. He suspected that she may be harboring a secret crush on one of the group, but it was not his place to ask since she never pried with him. 

Sitting on either side of the table in the middle of the living room were Chet and Biff, each with a beer can and a stack of cards. He guessed that meant they had not succeeded in roping Frank into a game of Kings Cup which made sense considering Frank’s mood after the afternoon’s events. Frank was just sitting quietly next to him on the hearth of the unlit fireplace, deep in thought as he rubbed his thumb gently over the grooves of his cup of Franzia’s “Sparkling White” - a luxury!

That reminded Joe to keep drinking his water. Frank wanted him to finish it, so he would. And then perhaps Joe would join Chet and Biff in Kings Cup or another game like - 

“Truth or Dare!” His mouth betrayed him before he could think about whether that was actually what he wanted. All things considered, probably not. Not yet.

Iola chimed in from across the room, “You can keep suggesting it, Joe, but we’ve decided on a _ lowkey _ evening.”

Keep_ suggesting it? Oops. _

“I… may have had more of the vodka than I intended to,” Joe stammered out. 

Frank let out a sharp but not unkind chuckle. “You don’t say?” 

Chet looked up from where he was intensely studying the hand of cards that he was not succeeding in hiding from Biff. “Why so keen on Truth or Dare today, Joe? You got something you want to tell us?” 

“Or something he wants to know!” Biff said, with a wiggle of his eyebrows towards Iola who pretended she hadn’t seen it. 

Joe’s moment of silence must have been a beat too long, because he felt Frank’s hand clap down on his shoulder. The rest of the room continued as though Joe had not spoken. “I… You know you can, um.” He could not meet Joe’s eyes. “I want to be more honest with you. I want to be able to lean on you and not feel s-so guilty about it, I guess. So you can ask. From now on, if you want to ask, ask. I know I can tell you the truth.” 

The younger of the brothers blinked slowly, processing the words Frank was saying. _ Oh. He’s talking about earlier in the car_. The sober portion of his brain, small as it was, recognized that the booze may have played some role in Frank’s ability to open up, but he took it no less seriously. 

“Actually,” Joe paused to take a long swallow of his water. “I’m the one that needs to tell the truth. I can’t yet, but I think I’ll be there soon.” 

Frank’s brown eyes met Joe’s, and he narrowed them for a second, studying the face of his brother. Joe’s eyebrows were drawn together, a sign of his nerves, but there was a ghost of a smile there as well. Frank let out a breath and looked back out at the room; Biff and Chet were still engaged in what was apparently a two-person game of Texas Hold ‘Em (the stakes seemed to be… nothing?) and Iola was showing Callie something on her phone. 

“When you can, Joe. I’ll always be here.” 

It was a phrase he said a lot. Of course, a good big brother would always promise his constant support. But Joe had doubted it a lot, especially during the worst of Frank’s depression, prior to getting his diagnoses. He was always afraid that one day his parents would tell him that Frank had...

There was nothing but truth in the way that Frank said it now. Joe felt with absolute certainty that if Frank had anything to say about it, he wouldn’t ever leave Joe’s side. It was an optimism that he hadn’t sensed from his brother in… well, a very long time. If he were more sober, Joe would remind himself that Frank’s recovery was never going to be linear, and he needs to be _ realistic _ about what to expect. 

Drunk Joe just leans into Frank’s shoulder. “You are the best big brother a guy could have.” 

He hears Frank snort derisively, trying to hide it just a second too late. “Sure, Joe.” 

“No, really! We do, like, everything together,” Joe stumbles over the words as he leans back up. His eyes are on his hands as he gestures wildly throughout the ensuing monologue. “Do you know how many people have a brother that’s also their best friend? Like, nobody! Sorry, Biff. You know you’re my number two. But really! And we’re also the best damn detective duo I’ve ever seen. I mean, obviously Nancy is better than both of us combined -” 

Joe misses Frank’s soft blush. 

“But we have, like, government contracts. That’s primo scholarship material! We are badass, ya know. And - And this goes back to _ you,_ because you’re the reason for that! You’re smart, and you’re so _ strong_, Frank. I can’t even imagine half of the shit that… And I can tell you anything. Anything at all, and you will always trust that I know when to ask for help o-or know what’s best for myself, which is why I _ know _ I’ll be able to tell you that -” 

Frank cuts him off. “Alright, buddy, I think it might be time to get you into bed.”

“That was a very lovely speech, Joe,” Callie says with a smile. She and Iola exchange a confusing expression that Joe cannot even try to comprehend as he lets himself be lifted up by Frank. Joe’s leaning heavily on his shoulder by now. 

“You play football with a guy for, what, five years, and he still thinks his dorky brother is his best friend. It hurts, bud,” Biff grunts dramatically. Joe dumps the last millimeters of his water cup onto Biff’s head. He thinks that got the message across. 

Once he’s gained his balance without the assistance of Frank’s arms, Joe yawns, stretches, and waves his goodnights to the room. One of the twin beds in the guest room is sounding lovely now. “Less vodka next time. Lesson learned!” 

Iola laughs, before saying softly, “We love you, Joe. Sleep well.” 

He’s asleep within five minutes of his head hitting the pillow, and when he wakes up, he finds that Frank, who is still snoring softly across the room (making this the latest he has slept in in awhile), has left a bottle of water and two aspirin beside the table-lamp. Joe recognizes it for what it is: a _ thank you _ for digging out Frank’s medication and calming him down when they were in the car. Frank may be a loving big brother, but he was not afraid to let Joe suffer when he deserved it to learn his lesson. It made Joe a bit sad; Frank didn’t need to thank him for anything.

He swallowed the pills, chugged half of the water bottle, and rolled back onto his pillow. Today. Joe would tell Frank today in the car, and his older brother could comfort_ him _ through the panic and anxiety for once as he spilled out the truth he’d been holding inside for so long. _ Be out. Be proud._

They were brothers. They shared everything. And they always would. 

**Author's Note:**

> BEFORE YOU READ: Readers should be prepared for mentions of depression and its related emotions/thoughts, obsessive-compulsive disorder (both behaviors and intrusive thoughts), and suicidal thoughts and methods (no attempts are made). There is underage drinking as well. Frank experiences a relatively brief anxiety attack. This is a rather self-indulgent work and much of what Frank goes through has in some way been experienced by me or those in my life. I want readers to be left with a sense of hope for Frank and themselves. 
> 
> AFTER YOU READ: The title “twins on motorbikes” comes from Richard Siken’s “You Are Jeff” which repeats the phrase four times in varying contexts; sometimes the twins are brothers, and sometimes they are lovers, but the second paragraph and use of the phrase in particular strike a chord with this story. You can read it (and I suggest that you do!) here: http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/17/you-are-jeff-crush-by-richard-siken/
> 
> The purpose of music in this fic is to demonstrate the discrepancy between how much time has passed in reality and how much time has passed for Frank. I always find that it takes me out of a fic when an author is just pushing their own music taste so the majority of Joe’s music is stolen from the Spotify of a frat boy theatre major. Perhaps you noticed that the name of Joe’s new playlist is taken from Lil Nas X’s C7osure which describes the rapper’s coming out experience. Joe enjoys: Khalid, The Wombats, Chance the Rapper, Avicii.
> 
> Frank’s music taste was inspired by a pre-law student and computer science major’s Spotify. I hoped to find people that reminded me of the brothers and use their taste to establish a realistic mix of tracks. Frank enjoys: MGMT, Coldplay, The Black Keys, Daft Punk.


End file.
